


Good Fucking Riddance

by Starsarescreaming



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Hank Anderson is a Good Friend, Hurt/Comfort, connor doesn't like interfacing, connor doesn't like mindreading, connor talks about his trauma, interfacing, just a scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starsarescreaming/pseuds/Starsarescreaming
Summary: “Connor.” Hank caught his arm. They were here after-hours - again; work hours had been crazy after an Android revolution when he was the only Android detective in the US  - so it was just them, here. Connor looked up, to find him.Lieutenant Anderson was genuinely asking. Just asking. It wasn’t like Connor to dodge a  question, like that. He considered, for a little while, LED dipping briefly into yellow. Hank let his arm go.Connor appreciated Hank waited the several long beats it took him to find the words. “I’m… more comfortable without making use of that part of my software.”
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 3
Kudos: 149





	Good Fucking Riddance

**Author's Note:**

> just a short thing bc this scene was stuck in my head after I thought of it! I love these two. what nerds.

“Hey, Connor!” Hank caught him on his way out of the interrogation room. Lieutenant Anderson stood with his hands shoved in his pockets, a stance which was misleadingly casual; the Lieutenant always asked his best questions when he stood like this, with that sharp curiosity that had made him a decorated officer. Connor’s LED was a clear blue. “How come you don’t do that? That … interfacing thing.”   
  
The Android in the interrogation room had offered to show Connor what had happened, rather than telling him. That sort of detail would have been vivid; would probably have led to another lead; may even have shown them who was behind this, recordings of the scene often had details which could lead to an arrest which the victim hadn’t noticed or known to look for, the first time around. This victim would need to upload her memory of the hatecrime to a separate server, for human viewing, which would take a long while - the red tape involved usually discouraged their Android victims from going forward with it. It was difficult, procedurally, to account for the fact there were walking cameras around. They could find enough to press charges without that interface, make no mistake - Connor wasn’t bad at his job - but it would have been easier.   
  
“What do you mean?” he lied, with this slight shake of his head. It was dark enough he could see his LED flickering blue. Hank tilted his head up, brow furrowed, eyes giving that sensation of being _seen right through_ , x-rayed. Connor rarely felt _seen_ at all; to be seen _through_ was a strange, licking sensation in his stomach. Sort of cold. Sort of warm.   
  
He stepped forward, to walk past Hank, tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves to make it seem casual. They needed to log a report of the interview and transcribe the tape. “Evidence that's retrieved in a traditional manner is more admissible to the judiciary. Android recordings are still being legislatively interrogated for their accuracy, and possible manipulation.”   
  
“….Yeeeah,” Hank drawled, slowly. He nodded, once, because everything Connor had just said was true, but it also didn’t answer the question. He moved to follow Connor down the corridor, after a moment, after rocking his weight back on his heels and deciding that yes, he really did want to keep fishing. It was in his body language (Connor analysed it, in the glass wall’s reflection on his way back to the bullpen) that he was going to keep digging. “But we could’ve told them what to bag. Would’ve saved me freezing my ass off on the scene.” They’d have to go back, now.   
  
Connor’s LED flickered again, but he didn’t miss a beat, smooth: “I’m sorry about your ass, Lieutenant.” 

“Connor.” Hank caught his arm. They were here after-hours - again; work hours had been crazy after an Android revolution when he was the only Android detective in the US - so it was just them, here. Connor looked up, to find him.   
  
Lieutenant Anderson was genuinely asking. Just asking. It wasn’t like Connor to dodge a question, like that. He considered, for a little while, LED dipping briefly into yellow. Hank let his arm go.   
  
Connor appreciated Hank waited the several long beats it took him to find the words. “I’m… more comfortable without making use of that part of my software.”   
  
“There a reason why?”   
  
“Yes.” The answer was immediate, and defensive. His chassis was suddenly cold, all the way through. This sudden chill which didn’t have any place in this space here with Hank, where Connor usually felt quite warm. Even the lights out here, out in the bullpen, were dim enough that Connor could make out his solid yellow-orange LED in the reflection of the Captain’s office walls. He had never thought to be self-conscious about the LED, really. He would not start now. He kept himself standing there, even, which he did not consider an act of bravery so much as it was. “I was -” he started; stopped. How to phrase it? “The Connor prototype was designed with a sort of handler AI program. Her name was Amanda.”   
  
“Amanda?”   
  
“She would offer guidance about my choices,” his eyebrows lifted up; Connor was only explaining, now, “she was especially interested in… pruning my growing deviancy. She had at least viewing access to every one of my system files.” Was there a word, for the fact that this made him feel vaguely… sick? He didn’t know if ‘sick’ was the right expression for it. It certainly made him… uncomfortable. “She was supposed to be Cyberlife’s way, of keeping a handle on my progress throughout the case. That’s how I lodged reports with Cyberlife, remotely.”   
  
Hank listened, intently. Connor usually had _some_ difficulty reading the Lieutenant’s expressions, but something flickered across his face now that Connor couldn’t place at all. It was not the first time that he had seen it. Connor almost asked what it meant.   
  
“Shit,” Hank said. Offered. It sounded like an offer, though Connor was not sure of what. He hadn’t even mentioned the way Amanda had used his mind probing software to drag him back, at Hart Plaza. Connor didn’t want to. It was something he realised, here, standing beside Hank: that was something he did not want to share. Up until now, he had thought it had just _not come up_. “You said ‘was’?”   
  
“She’s gone, now.”   
  
Barely a nod. Invitation. “Good fucking riddance.”   
  
Connor blinked. Turned his head to the side, a little; his LED flashed a deeper amber. He could interface with other Androids; he offered his own interfacing connections, sometimes, so he could control what information passed between them. Accepting interfaces, though, when it could be spoken…? “Interfacing can be.. misused, if initiated by another party. I -” he shifted, turned full around to share this fact of his existence with Lieutenant Hank Anderson (a truth about himself which he could suddenly articulate into words), “I don’t like other people being able to read my thoughts. It seems invasive. My preference is to _avoid_ an interface.” This could impact a case’s efficiency. Their _own_ efficiency. At the expense of what? There were more and more Android hatecrime cases, coming in every day. Their time was precious.   
  
Would he apologise for wanting something?   
It stuck in his chest. No, he would not. But, “I truly am sorry about the weather, Lieutenant.”   
  
Hank nodded, slowly. His eyes had not left Connor’s face. He was still listening with that same intensity, lost in some thought Connor wished he… understood. But he did not, so he gathered the paperwork, and lodged the tape for transcription, and went to fetch evidence bags for whatever evidence they’d pick up from the frozen crimescene before they went home for the night. The Lieutenant was still processing the conversation when Connor returned, so he picked up the keys -   
  
“Connor.” Connor paused, but only because he had to, because Hank was not taking the keys from him. Connor didn’t technically have a driver’s license. Hank said, “What they put in your head. Reading your thoughts like that. That’s fucked up.”   
  
Connor looked at him. His thirium pump squeezed, a little. He was suddenly aware of the cold of the air, how it felt when it filled his lungs. His LED slipped back into blue, albeit flickering. “Yes, Lieutenant.”   
  
After a beat, Lieutenant Anderson reached out to accept his set of keys. They’d go out to the crimescene. He’d get frostbite. It would be fun. Sly, and only so much later that Connor might have thought that was the end of it, he asked, “Are you angry about it?”   
  
Connor thought about Amanda tearing away his agency. He thought about having his Self, his whole Self, torn out of his grip when he had finally found it. He thought about Amanda and the frozen hellscape she would have let him die in. He thought, too, about feeling sick. His LED stopped flickering. He didn’t say anything, but the light at his temple steadied out into calm blue.   
  
“Good,” Hank clapped him on the arm, and finally turned away. “Now c’mon, let’s get this done before we freeze. Shitty fucking Detroit weather.”   
  
“It was colder yesterday, Lieutenant.”   
  
“Don’t fucking remind me.”   



End file.
